


Out of the Ashes

by LarasLandlockedBlues



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Character Study, City Elf Origin, Duncan and Tabris Bonding, Eventual Romance, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Tabris, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow To Update, Trauma, as in I have no clue when it will be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 14:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13273683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarasLandlockedBlues/pseuds/LarasLandlockedBlues
Summary: Nemaine Tabris' life just seems to go from bad to worse after the traumatic interruption of her wedding causes her to be conscripted by the Grey Warden Duncan. But in the midst of the Blight, she finds herself thrown together with someone who just may help her survive and thrive.





	1. Crimson

The stars are twinkling, and without the usual lights of Denerim, she can finally see just how many of them are in the sky. She always sat in the middle of the Alienage, under the vhenadahl, staring up at the stars after night had fallen. She had always wondered whether or not there was more she wasn’t seeing, more to this world she wouldn’t have a chance to see.

Or at least, so she had thought.

Now, for the first time in her life, she’s sitting under the stars in a clearing, away from the Alienage, away from the comfort of the only home she’s ever known.

Yes, comfortable. Despite its hardships, despite its squalor, she had been comfortable. And now…

Now she laments its loss. She laments how ungrateful she realizes she had been for everything she had there. She’d been an ungrateful child, and there’s so much she wishes she could change.

She clenches her jaw and shuts her eyes tight, fighting the tears.

There’s nothing she can do about it now.

She left. She’ll likely never see it again.

And after what happened…

She’s not sure if she wants to.

She forces her mind to go blank, she forces away the memories, so fresh they’re like throbbing cuts and tears in her flesh. Her heart aches, her hands shake, and she knows if she tries to sleep she’ll just keep seeing it over and over again.

And so instead, she stares up at the stars and stays awake. She knows she’ll be tired on the road, tomorrow. But even if she’s fully rested she’ll still run the risk of falling off her horse. She’s still sore from the day’s ride, and she loathes the idea of getting back on her saddle tomorrow to continue their journey. It’s unfamiliar, and she knows that the Grey Warden was trying not to laugh or get frustrated with how poorly she rode. He seemed like he understood, but also like he was impatient with her inability to pick it up more quickly.

She hears the rustling of leaves, the crunching of dry grass beneath heavy boots and she turns.

“Not able to sleep?” the deep voice of Duncan comes to her softly through the darkness.

“No,” she answers in a whisper.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tell her it’s understandable, he doesn’t tell her she should try anyway. Instead he nods to a spot beside her and she shrugs. He takes it to mean acceptance, and he sits down on the rock next to where she’s sitting.

She expects him to speak, to talk with her about what happened. To speak with her about how they left the city, to ask if she’s all right, to ask if she was _hurt_ – which he hasn’t asked, yet.

She expects him to ask her about what she did, possibly intending to lecture her about it.

He doesn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he simply sits beside her, listening to the wind and staring up at the night sky.

At first, it makes her nervous. This human saved her by conscripting her, by essentially taking away her freedom. Although, that’s what the guards were threatening to do anyway after she’d taken responsibility for what had happened. At least this way, she still has a chance to do something, to be out in the air and not locked in a dank cell.

But he’s sitting next to her so peacefully, even though he’s a formidable warrior. He’s simply staring up at the stars, breathing deeply.

After a long time, his presence almost soothes her, and she finally gives a yawn.

“Bed, I think,” he says softly when he sees her stifling the yawn.

She sighs, but doesn’t argue. Perhaps she can relax enough to get at least an hour, now. She settles into the small sleeping roll near the fire and stares at the flames for a moment.

When she shuts her eyes, all she sees is _red_. Wet and dark, dripping off daggers, dripping off faces, sliding down chins, flying through the air and coating her cream cotton dress...

She sees Nelaros cut down, she sees Shianni lying on the floor with her skirts bunched up, in shock and sobbing –

She sees Vaughn, covered in blood, the look of horror on his face when she dug her dagger in again and twisted it.

Her eyes fly open and she stares at the fire, swallowing hard and resisting the tears.

She won’t cry. She can’t. She still hasn’t, and she won’t ever let herself.

 _Like dogs, Shianni_ , she hears the echo in her mind. _Like dogs_.

She takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes once more, tentatively. This time, she falls asleep, and though her dreams are full of blood and screams, she manages at least to not fall off her horse the next day from exhaustion.

 

 

“We should arrive at Ostagar tomorrow,” Duncan tells her as they build the fire for the night.

“How much farther?” she asks, frowning.

“Not far,” he answers. “We should arrive by midday.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything else. They rarely talk, except when necessary, and yet it’s become a comfortable sort of silence. It’s full of understanding, as if Duncan knows she needs this time, as if he knows idle chatter would only make her feel worse.

She sits staring at the fire as she chews on the fennec meat they cooked for themselves. She feels antsy, she feels full of dread.

It’s not about Ostagar, or even joining the Wardens. She feels lost in her own skin, still trying to make her way back to herself after the last few days, after what happened in that keep.

She’s beginning to realize that girl she was, before, is gone. And she’ll never be back.

She sets down her dagger, no longer interested in the meat. Her appetite has been coming in flux, her stomach still twisting into knots. Even that is different, since before she’d always had a hearty appetite to make up for all of the activity she got during the day.

Now she has no interest in food, no interest in what she used to do before. Her life has been riding a horse for the last few days, silently next to this _shem_ who seems so stoic and yet still somehow kind.

She clears her throat and excuses herself, walking away to the small lake they’re near. She kneels beside it and splashes her face with the chilly water, and the moonlight shines on the surface as soon as it stills. She stares at her reflection as if staring at a stranger.

Her hair is pulled away from her face, and she reaches a hand into the tangled mess to pull the cotton ribbon free. Her long, ropey curls fall from the bun they were in, and she simply stares at how they fall over her shoulder, so long they’re dipping into the water she’s leaning over.

_“Maybe the redhead next, the bride – look at her,” one of the men leers. “I hear redheads feel everything more intensely. I bet I can get her screaming louder than you can.”_

_“You’re on,” another man says. “I’ve seen what you call your manhood, and it’ll only tickle her. What I’ve got between my legs, well – she’ll be begging for more.”_

She opens her eyes and feels her breath tight in her chest, remembering the way they had looked she and the other women over like cornered prey, like something to be devoured.

Shianni had styled her hair, she’d plaited it so intricately it hung heavy down her back, with embrium woven into it. By the time she made it out of the keep, her tresses had been soaked in blood, the curls tangled in a mess of knots and matted gore.

She stares at her hair now, thinking of how often she sat brushing it, how it always flowed behind her as she ran through the Alienage. How it swirled around her when she trained, when her mother taught her to use daggers and a bow in secret.

She’s always loved her hair, she’s always let it flow freely around her. Her father always commented that it was the perfect extension of her – wild, untamed, and flame red, much like a phoenix’s flame from the stories he used to tell her.

Now, she stares at her hair and thinks about how it got in her way, how it had been used against her. She thinks of the men who pulled it and twisted their hands into it, trying to drag her down a hall after them, calling her ‘knife-eared whore’ and telling her what they were going to do to her first.

She clenches her jaw and just stares at herself, trying to ward off the memories. But they won’t stop coming, they won’t stop playing again and again in her mind, like she’s trapped in a nightmare.

Without a second thought she reaches to the dagger at her belt and pulls it from the leather scabbard. She takes a handful of her hair and holds it out, staring into the still water of the lake as she begins to saw the dagger back and forth through the strands.

She drops the curls she’s cut off as she goes. Her hands never waver as they continue their work, holding handfuls and sawing them off, dropping them before moving on to another.

When she’s finished, she feels like a weight has lifted. It’s odd, not just in a physical sense. She feels like she’s shed her old self, the young woman she was before, the young woman she’ll never be again.

That Nemaine was able to be free, to run wild and let her hair fly behind her like the colors flown by an army, streaming behind her to mark her passage.

She’s no longer that Nemaine.

She absently runs her fingers through her hair, trying to find any strands she may have missed but also just adjusting to the new feeling. When she combs her fingers through the curls, it’s odd to her when they stop at her shoulders instead of continuing down to her waist, to her hips. She stares at herself for a moment longer before she turns, and she’s surprised when she sees Duncan standing nearby, watching her silently.

Still, he doesn’t say anything. He makes no comment, but she almost thinks she sees him give her a small nod, as if in understanding, or even, perhaps, approval.


	2. Cooperation

_We’re all to cooperate and get along._

But apparently no one else was given the same lecture, the same scolding from their superior.

Only Duncan has seemed truly concerned with making sure they all got along. And unfortunately, Alistair actually took him seriously when he said it.

It's unfortunate because it keeps landing him in situations like the one he’s in, with a bristling mage shouting tired accusations at him about harassment.

He wants to sigh, and roll his eyes. But the stern voice of Duncan echoes through his head like a scolding Chantry mother.

_Cooperate. All get along._

“And here I thought we were all getting along,” he says, unable to resist. He still can’t believe how easily the Revered Mother ambushed him and convinced him to deliver this message. He chafes when he thinks of it, as he stares at the mage scowling before him. _Just don’t turn me into a toad,_ he thinks. _That will really ruin my day_. “I was even going to name one of my children after you…the grumpy one.”

He can’t resist, still. It’s just too easy, watching the other man’s scowl deepen.

“Enough!” the mage grits out. “I will speak to the woman if I must…”

Alistair only half listens after that. He can see someone approaching out of the corner of his eye and he turns his head slightly to see who it is. _Not another mage, I hope._

But it doesn’t seem to be - at least, not any mage he’s ever seen. And he’s seen quite a few, all things considered, so he should know.

She’s short, and, he realizes after a moment, elven. Her hair is almost shockingly red, shining almost golden like flames in the sun above them. She’s pale, but covered in freckles. Really, so many freckles that parts of her skin almost look tan. Her curls are pulled back in a low ponytail, and the tips of her ears are poking out of the hair pulled over them. It almost looks like she was trying to hide them.

She’s actually rather pretty, with a small pointed chin and curved full red lips, almost looking like a bow. Her eyes are large, and taking in the scene before her with guarded curiosity.

He gets distracted looking at her as she comes to a stop a few steps away from where he and the mage stand facing each other. The mage is finally walking away, and Alistair doesn’t pay attention to his last few words.

Instead, he turns to face the small woman now standing next to him, and he gives her a smirk. “You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” he quips with a small sigh.

One of her gracefully arching eyebrows raises and she stares at him for a moment. “I’m sorry, what?” she asks. Her voice is slightly lower than he expected, but smooth like fine satin, almost lilting and melodious. But there’s something under the tone of her voice, something that is, quite frankly, _sad_.

“Oh, nothing,” he says quickly, seeing how confused she is by his response. “Just trying to look for a bright side in all of this,” he gives her a smile but she doesn’t return it. He frowns slightly, and then wonders why she’s standing here next to him. She looks like she wants something. “Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

“Would that make your day worse?” she asks. If he’s not mistaken, she almost sounds like she’s being sarcastic.

He likes that. A sarcastic elf? Maybe the day won’t be so boring after all.

“No, I just like to know what my chances are of being turned into a toad at any moment are,” he teases, and if he isn’t mistaken the look behind her wide eyes changes, almost like she thinks it was funny. Still, though, her face doesn't crack a smile. But then he remembers the missive he’d received from Duncan, that he’d managed to find the recruit he was looking for. He frowns. “Wait, I do know who you are. You’re Duncan’s new recruit, the elf from Denerim.”

She shifts on her feet and almost _scowls_ at him. He hadn’t meant it that way, he was just remembering what Duncan’s letter had said, the details of the newest recruit.

But as usual, he’s put his foot straight into his mouth.

“I should have recognized you right way. I apologize,” he rushes to say. Still, her face remains stoic, and sad.

After a long moment, she finally folds her arms and says, “That’s all right. No offense taken, really.”

He’s not sure she means it.

“Good. You didn’t exactly catch me at my finest with the mage there,” he sighs as he admits it. “But allow me to introduce myself: I’m Alistair, the new Grey Warden, though I...guess you knew that.”

Understanding dawns on her face and she nods slightly. She doesn’t say anything though, she doesn’t introduce herself.

And Maker…what was her name? He’s wracking his brain but for the life of him, he can’t remember it. He remembers being worried he’d mispronounce it when they met. But now he just can’t remember it at all, and he can’t decide which is worse.

He decides to just continue talking to fill the silence. “As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining,” he explains, his words halting. _Her name, what’s her name?_ He’s trying not to blush. He should remember, he shouldn’t make it obvious that he can’t. He’s wondering if she’ll take it more offensively since she’s an elf, like she’ll think he didn’t think her name was worth learning.

“I see,” she says softly. “Well, I – my name is Nemaine.”

“Riiight, of course, Nehmeme, that was the name,” he says, but she frowns sharply.

“Nemaine,” she repeats, speaking a little more slowly.

 _Of course_ , he thinks. _Of course I mispronounced it_.

“S-sorry, Nebane,” he hurries to assure her.

She closes her eyes and her neck arches slightly, almost as if she’s praying to the Maker for patience. “Nemaine,” she says, even more slowly than before. “ _Neh-main_.”

Alistair laughs. She shoots him a glare, as if she thinks he’s laughing at her, and he grimaces. He’s laughing at himself, because of course he’d butcher her name so horribly, more than once. First the mage, and now this. What a day. He feels incredibly lucky, definitely thrilled to be here.

He tries to deflect by bringing up the first thing he thinks of. “You know, it just occurred to me that there have never been that many women in the Grey Wardens,” he says. He wants to cringe. That was the first thing he could think of to cover the awkward fact that he couldn’t pronounce her name?

She quirks her eyebrow at him again, briefly. “You want more women in the Wardens, do you?” she asks. She’s not teasing him, she almost sounds a little accusatory.

“Would that be so terrible?” he asks. He means it. He’s seen women who can fight better than men. More female Grey Wardens would be wonderful, in his books. But she’s still looking at him like she’s suspicious. “Not that I’m some drooling lecher or anything. Please stop looking at me like that.”

The corners of her mouth _almost_ tug up at the teasing, self-deprecating tone of his voice.

 _So she_ can _smile_ , he thinks.

“So, I’m curious,” he says, changing the subject again. How many times is he going to have to change the subject like this, to cover his missteps? Definitely not his day. “Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?”

“Have you?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“When I fought my first one, I wasn’t prepared for how monstrous it was,” he tells her. He almost shudders at the memory. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to encountering another.”

She purses her lips slightly, absorbing his words. He can’t tell if she looks scared or just simply thoughtful.

“Anyhow, whenever you’re ready let’s head back to Duncan,” he tells her, and gestures for her to lead the way. “I imagine he’s eager to get things started.”

Nemaine turns and begins to walk, her arms still folded over her chest. As they begin their walk through Ostagar, she looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “That argument I saw, with the mage,” she says slowly. “What was it about?”

He sighs and resists rolling his eyes again. He needs to try not to set a bad example for her, as a Grey Warden.

_Cooperate. Get along. Respect each other._

“The Circle is here at the king’s request and the Chantry doesn’t like that one bit,” he says. “They just _love_ letting mages know how unwelcome they are. Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position. I was once a Templar.”

She almost stops walking as she regards him closely, taking in his appearance, looking him up and down. He towers over her, now that they’re walking side by side. She has to be over a foot shorter than him. He forgets sometimes just how small elves are, until he’s standing right next to one, wondering if he needs to raise his voice so they can hear him better with the height difference.

“That _would_ be awkward,” she muses flatly.

_Again, is that – sarcasm?_

“I’m sure the revered mother meant it as an insult – sending me as her messenger,” he sighs and chuckles softly. “The mage picked right up on that.”

She nods absently as they keep walking.

“I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we’re all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn’t get the same speech,” he vents. He can’t quite tell what it is about her that makes him want to vent, to voice his frustration. Then again he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, always spoken before he thinks through what he’ll say. Maybe it isn’t her, maybe he’s just frustrated.

“What about the other recruits?” she says after a few moments. “Duncan mentioned there were others?”

“Ah, yes, Daveth and Ser Jory, have you met them?” he asks, looking sideways at her. She shakes her head. “I’m sure they’re around somewhere. If you see a pretty woman, Daveth won’t be far behind. And Ser Jory – well, he’s probably praying, or watching the training and battle preparations.”

She nods again but doesn’t say anything. After a few moments, she almost seems to bristle that he’s still walking right beside her. “Do you _have_ to accompany me?” she asks.

“Don’t worry, I’ll try not to embarrass you,” he laughs. _And I’ll try not to take offense to that, either._

They walk through the camp together, and as they pass the quartermaster he looks at her armor. It’s worn, and battered. It looks like hand me downs, or like she scavenged them.

“The, uh, quartermaster is over there if you need anything,” he says, pointing. “Never know what we may need, if you’d like to stock up, see what he has.”

_Get new armor, maybe._

She pauses and considers, and then leads her way over to the man's wares. As soon as she approaches, the quartermaster walks swiftly over to her, a blackened scowl on his face. “You there! Elf! Where is my armor? And why are you dressed so preposterously?”

Nemaine stops and stares at him for a moment, and then a hardened, almost resigned look comes across her face. “Are – are you mistaking me for a servant?” she asks, her tone low and clipped.

Alistair wants to wince, he wants to smirk. _Awkward_ , he thinks, almost sing-song in his head. But he heard a catch of emotion in her voice, and he realizes how frequently this must happen to her, how often she must struggle to have people take her seriously. He goes from finding the awkward situation amusing to immediately thinking it was one of the saddest things he’d seen.

The quartermaster seems to realize his mistake, and she sighs and tells him not to worry about it.

 _Don’t worry about it_ , she grits out. _How could you know I’m the Grey Warden recruit?_

There’s something tired and bitter in her tone.

Alistair remembers now, Duncan didn’t say much in his letter about how he came to recruit her. He only said that he had.

He wonders how he can bring it up with Duncan, to ask what happened, see if he can find out more about her. Then again, the Joining hasn’t happened yet, maybe he should wait to get to know her story better. After all, what if she…

He looks at her and watches as she looks over the quartermaster’s wares, as the quartermaster almost _trips_ over his words to apologize to her for his mistake. She has a fierce look in her eyes, an oddly confident and daring way that she carries herself.

He can’t imagine that she won’t survive the Joining. It just isn’t possible. Someone like that, with that sort of _fire_ in their eyes, is just _made_ for surviving something as difficult as the Joining.

She finally turns away from the quartermaster and begins to make her way through Ostagar, and Alistair takes a few swift steps to catch up with her. He’s surprised she didn’t get armor, instead noticing that she’s simply swinging a quiver full of arrows over her shoulders, and a new, simple shortbow as well.

“Not enough coin for armor?” he asks, hoping again that he doesn’t offend.

She looks at him with a frown and then shakes her head. “No, the – the armor I have is fine.”

“It looks a little worn, it might not be enough -”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts.

His mouth snaps shut and he doesn’t try again. She almost seems irritated that he mentioned her armor. He’s had enough bickering for one day, after the mage. He decides not to pursue it.

Instead he follows her toward the fire Duncan is standing by, and he notices the Grey Warden is staring into the flames pensively. He wants to get him alone, to ask him questions, to see what he needs to know about their newest recruit. He’s far too intrigued, but she seems less than willing to give him any answers.

“Ah, I see you found Alistair,” Duncan greets them both, but then he turns a glare to Alistair. “I’ll assume you’re ready to begin preparations – assuming, of course, you’re quite finished riling up mages?”

Alistair wants to sigh again, but he doesn’t. “What can I say? The revered mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.”

He hears a soft sound from beside him, and it takes him a moment to realize it sounded like Nemaine was stifling laughter.

“She forced you to sass the mage, did she?” Duncan continues scolding, his tone stern. “We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don’t need to give anyone ammunition against us.”

_Cooperate. Get along._

Alistair still isn’t sure anyone else got that message.

He apologizes, and hangs his head slightly. Duncan’s right. And he’d asked it of him, specifically, as if he knew Alistair would struggle with it. “I’ll go make sure the others are ready,” he says after he apologizes. He wanders off, leaving Nemaine and Duncan standing by the fire. Luckily he doesn’t have to wander far, and he leads the other two recruits back with him. He isn’t quite sure what he thinks of them, but he knows that they don’t strike him quite as competent as the small elf he’s walking back toward.

Nemaine. What a fascinating, odd name. It certainly matches the small, fiery elf. It sounds like a challenge, daring and bold.

He stands back as Duncan explains their task, as he tells them they’ll be headed into the Korcari Wilds. He watches as Daveth and Ser Jory shift uncomfortably, as they protest. And he watches as Nemaine simply stands listening, absorbing Duncan’s words and her instructions, making sure she understands her tasks. Her face is set, it’s resolute.

There’s certainly a beauty in its unyielding, concentrating frown.

But he remembers that she sounded like she wanted to laugh when he joked about the revered mother. He wonders if maybe she’s just trying to prove herself, trying to show she’s capable, like she can handle whatever they throw at her.

Yet the whole time he watches her, the whole time since they met – an hour ago, he realizes, though it’s beginning to feel like longer – he’s noticed a sadness in her. It goads him, it encourages him. He wants to make her laugh, because he can’t stand how despondent she looks.

The recruits begin moving toward the gates of Ostagar, and he looks around, realizing Duncan is done explaining their task.

Alistair moves closer to him, folding his arms as he thinks. “Our newest recruit, Duncan, what can you tell me about her? She seems -”

“She was conscripted,” Duncan sighs. He seems tired, incredibly weary. “To avoid prison.”

Alistair raises his eyebrows. “Stealing?” he immediately guesses, thinking that she must have been trying to survive the Alienage, that she must have been trying to get by.

“Murder, according to the guards,” Duncan says. “Although it was much more like self-defense and justice.”

Alistair almost feels his head lean back as his eyebrows raise even further on his forehead. Murder? Her? He stares after her, watching as she checks to make sure her daggers are sharp and her bow is strung correctly.

“Really? You can’t be serious -” he begins.

“I am,” Duncan sighs. “I was there. She’s still – processing. Keep an eye on her, would you?”

Alistair nods, staring after her with a puzzled frown. “I can do that, Duncan,” he agrees. “Gladly.”


End file.
